


Watering Hole

by enemyfrigate



Series: Waypoints [2]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alley Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Series, Public Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 08:21:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enemyfrigate/pseuds/enemyfrigate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Gutterson reports to Basic Training two days after he sucks the cock of a lanky stranger at a truck stop in east Texas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watering Hole

Tim Gutterson reports to Basic Training two days after he sucks the cock of a lanky stranger at a truck stop in east Texas.

He doesn’t have much time to think about cock in the next year, which is pretty amazing when he thinks about it. He’s not even 18 yet. Cock used to be at least half of what he thought about. But when you can’t have it because there are really serious rules against it, when you’re too damn tired to even rub one out when you get a really rare bit of privacy, and when you’re sure your new comrades would beat the shit out of you if they knew, cock really stops being a priority.

It’s way more difficult to forget about cigarettes, and Tim never does entirely quit smoking. He does figure out that it’s really fucking inconvenient to be jonesing for nicotine while trying to aim a rifle, and worse when he starts sniper training, so he cuts way down.

Passing out of Basic and all the Ranger regiment training (he gets paid to jump out of planes, how is that not awesome?) means a bit more freedom of movement, and you never really forget how to pick up some stranger.

Tim perfects the art of the anonymous blowjob as he grows into manhood, outside loud bars and busy gas stations and other waystations for men just passing through. He never fools around with the same guy twice, and learns their names only by accident. He is careful, the way only a boy raised in the Bible Belt, and for that matter under the lash of his father, can be.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell is a friendly warning beside all that.

At 27, when Tim leaves the Army in favor of the Marshals Service, he’s never had sex in a bed. He’s killed dozens of men. Learned to drink liquor. Completed Ranger School the first time through. Led the Rangers under him in Afghanistan until he seems ancient to the new boys.

Aside from that, not much has changed in the ten years since he left Texas.

One year as Deputy Marshal Gutterson under his belt, and Tim is sent to Miami to pick up a prisoner and bring him back to Baltimore. It’s a shit job that no one else in the Baltimore office wants, because there’s no chance of an overnight; he can fly there and back in a day, even if it’s a long day. Plus, it’s August and hot as a dead dog’s balls in Florida.

Tim doesn’t mind the shit jobs. That’s how a new guy makes his bones. Later on, years into his career, he’ll be able to hold that over other new meat: I did it, so sack up. Shit rolls downhill. Way of the world.

He gets a night in Miami after all, when his assigned prisoner slips and cracks his head, lands in the prison hospital, and has to stay overnight to be observed. Tim gets lunch – one of those Cuban sandwiches which is a hell of a lot better than fast food – and goes to the Miami Seaquarium. One day, if he ever settles down in one place, he’ll get a big fish tanks for his house.

That night, at his cheap hotel, the Internet provides him with the name of a bar where a man can find an anonymous hook up, and a decent burger. A taxi provides him with an expensive ride. Tim pushes through a small crowd of men smoking on the sidewalk, feels them eyeing him. Their smoke smells good, but those guys, what passes for pretty boys at this pretty unhip bar, are not what he is looking for.

Tim knows what he wants, and none of it is pretty. He goes inside and gets a beer at the bar. There’s a stage, and a little dance floor, and some tables and chairs and booths, and a lot of men. They seem divided between cruising, watching baseball on the muted TVs over the bar, and yelling into their friend’s ears. Tim loves the Rolling Stones but this is too fucking loud.

There’s a guy Tim’s wandering eye keeps coming back to, where he’s leaning tall and lanky against the bar, intent more on the glass in front of him than the baseball game he might appear to be staring at. The guy’s got a little gray in his hair, gorgeous jawline covered in stubble. He’s wearing old, worn jeans, and the way the denim outlines his ass might just make Tim come in his pants.

If Tim was a complete asshole, he might think something like target acquired. But Tim tries not to be that kind of asshole, even when he doesn’t have an audience, so he makes his way over to the tall guy, making sure not to walk a straight line or even look at him.

“Hey, man,” Tim says, slotting himself between the guy and a little group of older men all cozy with each other; this is probably what passes for date night, for those guys. Tim sips his beer. Can’t rush your shot.

The guy looks over, ready to dismiss. “Hey.” But he does not look away. Tim sees his interest sharpen: his pupils, the way he tilts his shoulder away from the bar, opening his posture.

“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but I didn’t really come over here to get to know you better,” Tim says. He sets his beer bottle on the bar.

The guy barks a laugh. “I take it you don’t want to know my name, either,” he says, and he looks Tim up and down.

Tim relaxes. This is in the bag. “Not unless it’s Zorro. That would be cool.”

“I didn’t bring my mask with me,” the guys says. “And I ain’t driving a black horse.”

Tim loves the way the guy draws out his words. He can’t really place the accent. Maybe Tennessee? Doesn’t matter. He just hopes that the guy’s mouth feels as good as his voice sounds. “Let’s go somewhere else,” Tim says.

The stranger drains his glass and straightens. “There’s a back door by the men’s room.”

Tim leaves his beer on the bar and follows him.

Tim’s not even used to the muggy heat of a Baltimore summer yet, and the Miami air sucker punches his lungs when he steps into the alley. For a brief instant, he forgets about the perfect ass in front of him and is intensely thankful he isn’t asthmatic.

“Here seems good,” the guy says, honeyed tone losing some of its smoothness. He puts his hands on Tim’s shoulders, soft at first, like he’s waiting for a protest. Tim doesn’t shake him off and he seems to take that as permission to manhandle a little, gripping Tim’s shoulders hard and pushing him into the wall with his body. Tim’s fingers scrabble at the guy’s shoulders – gorgeous fucking shoulders – but he loves this, feeling a man’s strength. The guy’s mouth takes his by storm, and Tim opens up to him. Arches into him, rutting, glorying in the contact with another male body.

The guy works his belt open, jerks at the zipper too hard, and Tim has to reach down and help him.

That’s all the help the guy needs. He squeezes Tim’s thickened cock through his boxer-briefs, pushes rough fingers over his balls.

“You want me to suck you?” The guy breathes in his ear. “You want me to get down on my knees in this dirty fucking alley and let you fuck my mouth?”

Tim nods. Finds himself saying Please, and he never does that. Never.

Then the guy is sinking onto his knees, and yanking down Tim’s boxers, and his mouth is hot and soft and slick, his tongue probing and pressing against the underside of Tim’s cock as the head pushes toward his throat.

Tim gives himself over to whatever the guy wants to do. He presses his hands to the cinder block behind him, and lets his hips jerk into the guy’s mouth in their own rhythm. Then the head of his cock slides into the guy’s throat, and Tim closes his eyes against the pressure and ripples of the guy swallowing him down. He doesn’t last long, like this, and Tim would be embarrassed if it did not feel so damn good.

The guy gets to his feet, rubbing up against Tim like a damn ferret. Tim expected some kind of smug remark, but the guy’s just as needy as he himself just was, and he’s fumbling at his own jeans with clumsy fingers.

“You want my mouth?” Tim says, flicking the button fly open from pure sense memory.

The guy shakes his head, braces his hands on the wall on either side of Tim’s head, and spreads his legs a few more inches. “Just strip me clean.”

Tim gets a hand on the guy’s cock, gets it out into the night air. He licks his palm and fondles the thick head, takes him in a soft grip from below. A thumb pressed into the little knot below the head and the stranger lets out a drawn out hiss.

Now that Tim’s got the feel of him, he grasps him harder, works him faster. The stranger fucks his fist as Tim figures out what the man likes, rough and quick, and Tim braces himself to give his cock something to push against. The guy presses his head against Tim’s, fast breaths puffing into Tim’s neck. His rutting stutters out of rhythm, and Tim tightens his hand, quickens the slide of his fingers, until the man against him comes over his hand.

The stranger sags a bit against Tim, breathing hard.

Tim wipes his hand on the wall behind him.

“Fuck, that was good,” the guys mutters, and stands straight, reaching down to put his cock away. Tim eases his own sensitive cock back into his clothes and does up his pants.

Tim nods. “Real nice. Thanks.”

The stranger stretches. “You want to come in for that drink?”

Tim wonders what that would be like. What the hell would they have to say to each other? He doesn’t really know what people talk about after fucking. He’s never really cared. And now he finds himself wondering things about this guy – just little things, like what likes to drink, and where that accent’s from. Maybe where he works.

His name.

Tim forgets about saying yes. “Sorry man. Got to go. Got an early morning.”

“Oh,” the guy says.

Tim can see that he doesn’t believe him, and it pains him, to be caught in a lie.

But the guy shrugs. “Suit yourself. You have a good night.”

And he turns away.

All the discipline Tim learned in a decade in the military lets him turn around and walk out the street. He hails a cab, looking right ahead and not back at the door of the rather ordinary gay bar.

Instead of going back to his room when he gets back to the hotel, Tim takes a walk and finds a convenience store.

Tim tries not to want much. Makes it easier to go along with shit, like the army always telling you where to go and what to do when you got there, and raids in Afghanistan in the middle of a winter night, and pain-in-the-ass work trips.

He learned a long time ago that it’s stupid to want what you can’t have.

The only want he can deal with right now is the need for a cigarette.

Tim smokes the whole pack, wishing he’d gotten that guy’s name.


End file.
